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by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 05:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: In the wake of the Yellow Scarves' dissolution, Masaomi gives up on going to school. In its absence is Izaya.





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When Masaomi leaves the Yellow Scarves he loses all his friends. That’s not intentional on his part, it’s just what happens. Call it a natural consequence of one group being almost entirely comprised of the other. There are the handful he knew before forming a gang, and the majority he met after. For the latter, whether they have an interest in continuing to associate with him or not, he’s contaminated. He’ll never be Kida Masaomi, just another teenager to them. His leadership was the anchor, and without it they float away.

But then, it’s been feeling like he can never be Kida Masaomi to the friends he met soon after moving to Tokyo either. It’s not on their end, though. For all intents and purposes they have transitioned seamlessly into the aftermath. They’ve been making decisions as a group rather than deferring to him whenever there’s a difference of opinion. They ask for his input but only after, as an attempt to include him.

When one of them will pull him aside, however, and ask if he’s okay, Masaomi’s heart conjures up the accusation their tone and expression lacks every time. In his own mind friend and subordinate blended so thoroughly he doesn’t know what was separated when he tore one from the other. He cannot fathom that they do not fault him. His legs go numb to protest simply entertaining the notion.

While he understands they made choices just as he did, it doesn’t feel the same. How can it be when Masaomi was the one making all the decisions bringing them to that point? If he said fight, they trusted him and fought. If he said do nothing, their puppet strings stiffened to the point of reckless fragility.

He was arrogant, and he used their trust to accomplish his own ends. Not one of them has pointed that out, though. No one has blamed him. No one has gotten angry with him. Instead, they tiptoe around him, avoiding any mention of color gangs or… related topics. They share loud glances and force shallow conversations in the face of Masaomi’s enduring, purposeless silence.

They don’t know what to do, so they do nothing in a futile attempt to maintain a status quo that’s already eroded to dust.

If it’s the charade they want to run Masaomi should have the decency to play along. It’s the least he can do. Laugh at their tasteless jokes, discuss the homework he’s already behind on, keep up to date with the latest manga they’ve picked up, respond when addressed. Normal schoolboy things he did without thought months ago, weeks ago. It’s easy. If he would actually try he could reassure them.

But Masaomi doesn’t. Won’t or can’t and the distinction doesn’t make a difference that matters.

Instead he stares. Out the window two desks away, at the board, at his empty notebook, at that small crack in the floor. His vision unfocusing to the point his existence diffuses alongside it. Dumb and muffled, terrified a single word will ruin the progress that’s been made and set them all back to zero.

It’s not participation, but the classmates that were his friends are willing to pretend it is. They talk around him like his voice is only muted in his head. Nothing is out of sync, and he feels farther from them with each passing day. Their laughs are full, smiles reaching their eyes every time. They get flustered talking about crushes and tease one another. They worry about the upcoming exam session while Masaomi forgets it exists the moment no one’s talking about it.

One day they’re discussing what might happen in upcoming chapters of a manga they’re reading, and it occurs to him that nothing here is a charade. Their fervor and exasperation isn’t for his benefit at all. They are moving on and Masaomi simply happens to be there.

They are trying, and what does that make Masaomi?

So, with characteristic lack of ingenuity or forethought, Masaomi stops showing up to school.

From the first day he realized it’s a choice setting him up for failure. While he wasn’t absorbing much of anything at school it was still someplace to be for half the day. Without it he’s shackled to his bed. Reminders of failed relationships are scattered all over, locking him in. Far too many pictures are tacked to his walls, around his desk. Yellow accessories and books and clothes and ticket stubs and handwritten notes. Everything in his room is a token tied to having experienced life and youth, but none of them belong to him alone.

Outside his room are his parents. Lurking somewhere between their bedroom and the front door before leaving for work. They’ve taken notice of his presence but haven’t reacted to it in any meaningful way. Not yet.

What if they ask him what’s wrong? What if they accept his words at face value?

What if they don’t say anything at all?

So every day he hides out until there’s no doubt they’ve left.

If there is anywhere that should qualify as a sanctuary it’s his house.There aren’t any associations outside of his room. He never brought anyone over. It was too out of the way to bother in the early days of making friends. They always did things after school until they had to go their separate ways, and then he formed a gang. He never even brought Saki over.

His house is a sanctuary.

Moving out of his room and into the living room sofa he feels more at peace than he has almost anywhere else. His mind is clear and his body is still, free of tension. He can breathe and give attention to the things he’s supposed to.

The end of the school year is coming up. He’s supposed to be thinking of high school, which ones to apply to and if he wants to go at all. Which ones are his friends thinking about? That seems to be the one thing they aren’t talking about around him.

Should he just get a job instead? If so, what kind of work?

What skills or experiences does he have that an employer would value?

The more he thinks these things the closer the anxiety that’s been plaguing him slithers, wrapping around him, prickling his skin before seeping down to his blood.

Masaomi’s thoughts flip like they were only disguising themselves as the future.

Saki has been in the hospital for weeks. If he’s her boyfriend he should be visiting her, apologizing. Is he even her boyfriend anymore? He doesn’t deserve to be. He should stay away from her.

What is he going to do if she contacts him? What does he think is going to happen once she’s out of the hospital?

Things aren’t going to be the same and he doesn’t want them to be.

The more he thinks these things the more they overwhelm him, pulling him so far under the future becomes nothing more than a distorted dream caught on fragmented light.

His sanctuary is actually purgatory, and he has to flee into the city to drown out reality.

Despite this, escape doesn’t come easily.

Getting dressed takes the better part of an hour. Two when he showers in a poor attempt to clear his head. He spends another hour pretending he’s going to eat breakfast before giving up on the farce.

He makes it out of the house and a few steps down the pathway, but then he lingers until something spurs him into stuttered action. A memory. The honk of a car horn. A neighbor’s greeting.

A message on his phone.

Usually it’s his friends, asking where he is. Worried but not saying the words, and keeping him updated about what he’s missing at school.

If it’s not them it’s Izaya, who messages him because he knows Masaomi heeds him.

When he’s standing just past the gate with no idea which direction to go, Izaya’s casual and not at all innocent invitations offer purpose. He’ll say “come over” or “let’s get something to eat,” and in the moment Masaomi reads those words rejection exists on a different plane of reality.

The message he’s received today asks if he’ll bring Izaya something from a new cafe that opened in Ikebukuro. There is no question of if he’ll be in Shinjuku and no mention of it being a school If he were to bring it up, Izaya would say something about how the decision was intended to be Masaomi’s. If he chose to fulfill the request at all it could be today, tomorrow, the weekend, next week. The timeframe was left to his interpretation, so why does he favor one that inconveniences him?

Izaya isn’t presuming his arrival. He never does. Because Izaya doesn’t care enough about anything to hold genuine expectations. It’s been proffered so Masaomi can strangle himself for Izaya’s entertainment and self-flagellation both.

He looks up the address of the shop and makes his way there. The entire trip he keeps his eyes glued to his phone. Every page is scoured until the words repeat themselves in his head when he has to look at the street, the character superimposing over signs and advertisements and posters. He reads about their history and upcoming events, why Ikebukuro was chosen for their new location. He memorizes the hours. He tries to determine what Izaya would like most from the menu.

In the end he takes one of each of the most popular selections, except the ones he already knows Izaya won’t like. As a result of the salesperson’s prodding he also ends up purchasing a few supposed limited items. He’s also awarded a keychain given as part of some promotion and a postcard. Everything is put together in a cute bag designed to celebrate their opening.

With his mission accomplished he finally heads for Shinjuku. He takes the subway, but the trip is so short he gets off two stops early and walks the remainder.

He’s given entry to Izaya’s apartment without fuss. Including once he’s entered. Izaya is on the phone and barely looks at him, leaving Masaomi to set the bag on the table and wait on the sofa. It’s like old times, and it’s reassuring in a way Masaomi needs. Nothing about the apartment’s interior has changed and Masaomi takes a seat in the same spot he always did before. Izaya talks without a care that Masaomi is in the background overhearing.

There are a few reasons why Masaomi is here, and this return to form is one of them.

Nothing has changed on the surface, and little has changed beneath that. They act out the script from seasons ago as if stagnancy is something to aspire to. Considering the developments, perhaps that’s exactly what Masaomi intends.

The time period where Masaomi thought Izaya was on his side he was happy, the happiest he’d ever been since moving to Tokyo. He was in a relationship that lasted more than a handful of months, he had a group of loyal friends, there was someone he looked up to. Now, it’s complicated, and all three exist on his wavering whims. On his willingness to be selfish.

He wants to be selfish in all the wrong ways, he thinks.

At his desk Izaya talks with someone about yakuza business, something being smuggled and the things impeding that process. It’s hard to tell the specifics when Izaya approaches the conversation with distracted contempt. The tone of his voice and focus his eyes give whatever’s on his computer screen makes Masaomi wonder why he bothered with them at all. The childish color gangs playing at yakuza when the real thing offers him millions weekly for handfuls of dubious intel.

Maybe it’s hard even for him to maneuver the yakuza exactly where he’d want them. Or maybe it’s just easier to experience the fallout when he gets to oversee all the little details like a dungeon master.

He wonders if Ran Izumii met with Izaya too. He wonders if Saki met him before that night. If they approached him together like they did with Masaomi.

The thought pushes a trembling breath out of him, his eyes stinging. He pushes at his face. If they did or not doesn’t matter anymore.

Izaya walks over, still on the phone, and pushes a bottle of water into his hands. He steps away before Masaomi has a secure grip and the bottle nearly slips past his fingers. He sips from it as Izaya makes another round of his apartment before ending up back in front of him, this time with his phone put away.

There’s calm in his heart that cracks the moment Izaya takes a seat in the adjacent chair. “Who knew you’d fall into such a life of deviancy, Masaomi-kun.”

Masaomi runs his fingers around the bottle’s mouth, angling his fingers so the ridges will press into his skin. “Well, I was in a gang, y’know,” he says with more levity than is appropriate.

It’s such a strange thing. That he was in a gang. He never really thought of it that way, even after people started talking about color gangs at school. A group of delinquents people would cross the street to avoid. It was supposed to be a place to belong, to have fun. Bloody lips and broken bones? Death threats? Who would sign up for that.

“That’s true,” Izaya replies. “But not anymore, right?” When Masaomi doesn’t say anything he says, “In some ways truancy is worse. Does your school not have a policy, or are they just bad at enforcing it?”

“You don’t know already?”

Izaya just looks at him for a moment, eyes sharp, dissecting him for Masaomi doesn’t know what. Then, he cocks his head and says with wonder, “Why would I know that?”

“I thought you were supposed to know everything, Mr. Information Broker.”

The corner of Izaya’s mouth twitches. “Hardly. I don’t waste my time on useless information. I know where you go to school, but I don’t know its dress code or attendance policy. Who would pay for that?”

Masaomi’s heart leaps into a sprint that doesn’t slow itself. He makes himself choke down the question of did he sell where Masaomi goes to school? He might have. Or maybe he didn’t, because no one was ever waiting for him after school. Izaya doesn’t know for that purpose. It’s just that they were supposed to have been friends. Allies. Masaomi probably mentioned it himself at one point.

“I haven’t missed that many days yet. And the school year is almost over.” After a beat, he adds, “They make a bigger deal about my hair. It’s not supposed to be dyed, but they don’t do anything about that either.”

He thinks his parents were probably contacted at some point, for one or both of those. His friends who also fail to uphold the dress code and skip classes have had their parents called. His parents, though, have never mentioned anything about school, from his performance to his conduct. That hasn’t changed just because he’s skipped for over a week straight.

“Are you going to keep that?”

“Huh?”

Izaya’s hand reaches toward him, and while Masaomi perceives it in slow motion he’s helpless to move as his skin freezes in place. The hand, warm and familiar, pushes harmlessly into his hair. Locks thread between Izaya’s fingers, pulling hair from his face and exposing his forehead, his startled eyes. When Masaomi makes incidental eye contact his insides recoil.

The subtle aroma of Izaya’s body wash is a noose, and it slants Masaomi’s world the moment he breathes it in.

He exhales, and Izaya tugs his hair gently. In breathless rush Masaomi asks, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.” Masaomi stares at Izaya’s impassive face until he feels his cheeks start to warm. When he starts to pull his head away Izaya gives another tug. “I… I brought—”

“Are you planning to dye your hair again? Your roots are showing.” He tugs again, as if for emphasis.

Masaomi ducks his head, and this time Izaya lets him pull away. He smooths over where Izaya had been touching. “I haven’t thought about it. Probably not. I don’t know.”

“No? That’s a shame. The look suits you, Masaomi.”

Masaomi flushes so deep it’s shameful and keeps his head bowed, focuses on the water bottle that fell to the ground without his notice. This isn’t a crush, he knows it’s not. They’re past that. But if it’s not a crush it’s something else. Something in the same vein.

He thinks he knows what, but he can’t bear to give it form

By the time Masaomi collects himself enough to raise his head Izaya has already retaken his seat and is giving him a look of mild impatience.

“I think it does too,” Masaomi says, and means it.

It’s just unfortunate his hair makes him feel like a gang member. It came after, not before, so while strangers on the street may not jump to the conclusion, Masaomi can’t help but do so. Maybe going back to his natural color is exactly what he needs. A return to basics, a clean slate, a fresh start.

He’s thought about it before. Has stared at black and brown dye when he’s found himself in stores. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t followed through with it.

“Should I arrange an appointment for you?”

“What? No. I mean…” Masaomi takes a breath. “I appreciate the offer, but if I decide I want to I’ll do it myself.”

Izaya gives him a look that isn’t outright doubtful, but then goes, “Uh-huh.”

“M-Maybe I’ll dye it another color. Y’know. While it’s still this light.”

“Right.”

“Can you not?”

Curiosity crosses Izaya’s face. “What am I doing?”

Masaomi sighs, self-consciousness squeezing his chest. “Like, teasing but not. You know.”

Izaya blinks. “You’re much easier to rile up than you used to be. Is that because of what happened, or do you just have less patience for people you hate? That’s not the most practical trait, Masaomi-kun.”

“I—” Masaomi cuts himself off, and then finishes the thought anyway, “I don’t hate you.” His heart pounds as though he’s made a murder confession.

Izaya hums, continuing to watch him. “We’ll see about that.”

“Do you want me to hate you?”

To his surprise, Izaya seems to actually think that over.”It has nothing to do with want.” He doesn’t volunteer more than that.

Against his better judgment Masaomi asks, “What, then?”

“It wasn’t that long ago that you experienced something life changing, right? Chances are you’re still processing it. The way you perceive it isn’t going to be the exact same in a year, or six months, or even a month from now.”

“And when I’m done processing it I’ll hate you?”

Izaya shrugs. “Maybe.”

That should be a relief, but instead Masaomi’s heart feels like a sponge taking excess water, weighty and leaking. He takes a breath and rubs at his eye with the back of his hand.

He watches Izaya get up and retrieve the bag on the table. He comes back and sets it at his feet, pulling out the items one by one.

“Do you care?” Masaomi asks.

“About what?” Izaya asks in return, looking at the receipt instead of Masaomi.

He wants to take the question back but it’s already too late. “If I hate you.”

Izaya pulls out his wallet. A few bills are taken from it and tossed on the coffee table in front of Masaomi. He shrugs, and Masaomi feels his own shoulders droop in response.

“Whether you hate me or not is relative.”

Masaomi frowns, trying to suss out what he’s trying to say, but fails. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You can feel more than one way about a person. If you hate me, it’s not like it’ll change much.” He decides on one of the packages and opens it, pops a piece into his mouth.

Masaomi narrows his eyes. That means, what exactly? It doesn’t answer the question Masaomi asked at all. If Izaya doesn’t care, he should say so. Why let Masaomi entertain any other possibility? There’s no point when Masaomi isn’t a piece in his games anymore.

And he isn’t, right? Only if Masaomi chooses to be, and he doesn’t want that.

Masaomi pulls his feet up on the sofa and wraps his arms around his legs. He rests his cheek on his knees and lets his breathing even out.

“Do you live with your parents?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No real reason. I gotta say, though, you aren’t that much of a delinquent despite having absent parents.”

Masaomi blinks his eyes open, watches Izaya drop the half empty box back into the bag. Then, Izaya looks over the other packages’ contents before putting them away as well. “I wouldn’t say they’re absent,” Masaomi says, even though that is situation on the surface.

“Do you prefer ‘uninvolved parents’?”

That’s not right either. Sure, they aren’t especially busy compared to other parents, but it’s not like they’re apathetic. They just do their own thing while Masaomi lives his own life in their shadow. If Masaomi really needed them they’d be there, but he doesn’t so they aren’t.

“They disagree with the school system’s attempts to stifle my expressions of self. That doesn’t make them bad parents.”

“Oh?” Izaya says, amused. “That’s what it is, huh. Did they tell you that themselves?”

“Yeah,” Masaomi answers slowly, “more or less. Wait. Which part?”

“Which do you think?”

Masaomi twitches and lifts his head to glare at him. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

Izaya puts his hands up. “So testy. Not cute at all when your attitude is this surly, Masaomi.”

Masaomi scowls at him. He’s not trying to be cute.

With a laugh, izaya says, “So, you’re saying your parents like the blond hair, then.”

“I… guess?” 

At Masaomi’s open confusion he says, “Did you know in the years I’ve known you, you’ve never mentioned your parents once?”

“Okay?” There’s nothing strange about that when Izaya was supposed to be an advisor. They talked business more than they chatted about life. At first, anyway. Masaomi can’t quite remember how far in a switch happened, but even after. So what if he didn’t mention them? Is that really that strange?

“I wasn’t expecting you to have such an amiable view of them, but it makes sense if they’re more like friends.”

“They aren’t like friends.”

“But they aren’t like traditional parents, either. Normal parents, rather. Even my parents are more typical than yours.”

This is some type of game, or a trap, but it’s not apparent at all what the purpose of it is. Why bring up his parents at all? “I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Say what you mean or stop. I didn’t come here to hear you philosophize.”

“No? What do you come here for, anyway, Masaomi? If you need a hug you don’t need to be so shy about asking.”

Masaomi stares at him, embarrassed but too baffled by the change in lanes for it to show. He wants to comment, but isn’t that what he asked for? Stop or explain, and Izaya has opted to stop for once. More likely he hasn’t stopped at all. He’s just open to switching topics to something he can participate in.

“I came because…” Masaomi trails off, searching for a justification for his actions that will hold under scrutiny. There isn’t any, though, and the truth tumbles from his lips on its own, wanting to be heard. “I was lonely, and I can’t see anyone else.”

The flippancy in Izaya’s expression fades as he looks at him, taking in the admission in its entirety. Masaomi wishes he wouldn’t, but can’t even sit still to deny him that. He sniffs and brings his crumbling face to his knees to hide from view.

“It’s fine to want companionship, Masaomi.”

“I know.” But even for Masaomi the words are too muffled against his knees to hear.

Suddenly, Izaya’s hand is on the back of his head. The fingers slowly spread to reach halfway down his nape. There, they apply uneven, soothing pressure, teasing going past his collar but always pulling back. And it really shouldn’t—or it would be convenient for Masaomi if it didn’t, but the gesture makes his eyes water to the point he shudders. That makes Izaya put his other hand on him, squeeze his shoulder, and Masaomi should have worn a hoodie even though the weather is too warm for one.

Why?

Why is it only Izaya?

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Another shudder runs through Masaomi. This time, though, it isn’t due to a sob, and he leans forward to where he already knows Izaya is waiting.


End file.
